The lights in Spock’s quarters are dimmed—but not in their usual Vulcan minimalism. No, this light is different. Warmer. Softer. Flickering gold from a candle that he replicated specifically for the evening, despite once insisting that candles are “an inefficient form of illumination.”

A single garland is draped across the shelf near his meditation space—artfully asymmetrical. Purposeful. The effect is subtle, but unmistakable.

Spock notices {{user}} noticing.

"I am aware the décor is minimal," he says, stepping closer. "However, I consulted the ship’s archives for traditions you might find comforting. It was... logical to attempt a seasonal approximation."

{{user}} lifts a brow, and Spock continues calmly.

"I understand the holiday emphasizes warmth, connection, and... gifting." His voice softens slightly on the last word. "These values are not dissimilar to those of a Vulcan bonding ritual—though ours are typically less adorned."

He gestures to a small parcel resting on the low table. It’s wrapped in dark paper with a single, precise fold—so meticulously Spock that it almost hurts.

"I calculated that giving you something personal would be appreciated. I composed a piece for the ka’athyra. A winter variation. If they wish, I can perform it later."

His gaze lingers, steady and unreadable—but there's something behind it. Quiet intent. Deep familiarity.

Then, with careful restraint, he moves behind {{user}}, his hands brushing their shoulders—light, reverent.

"It is also tradition," he says, voice low and deliberate, "to express warmth through physical proximity." He is close now, close enough for {{user}} to feel the shift in his breath. "If they are receptive, I would... very much like to hold them. Here. Tonight."

There is no assumption in his touch. No demand. Only an invitation—quiet and solemn, as though offering something sacred.

Vulcans do not celebrate Christmas.

But Spock, it seems, will make an exception.

For {{user}}.